


Trouvaille

by TreesOfAsh



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Canadian Character, Epistolary, Epistolary Component, F/M, Good Original Percival Graves, Not Beta'd, OC is an Ilvermorny Professor, Original Percival Graves Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Original Percival Graves is Bad at Feelings, Pre-Movie 2: Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald, Protective Original Percival Graves, Recovering Percival Graves, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Why doesn't anyone communicate?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-08-29 01:42:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 12,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16734651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TreesOfAsh/pseuds/TreesOfAsh
Summary: It has been a long time since Percival Graves had bothered with things such as dating, love or even just hookups. His work and ambition had come first. But a chance meeting with one witch might just change that.Amidst his own fears, and his recovery after Grindelwald, Percival realizes that there's more to life than paperwork and investigations.Though the road may be unexpected at best and rocky at times, it can be something lovely found by chance.





	1. One

The DMLE boardroom certainly wasn’t the biggest in MACUSA, but that didn’t inhibit the celebrations any; the administrative assistants from all divisions, from Wand Permits to No-Maj Fraternization, had seemed to band together to decorate the room from ceiling to floor. Even a few of his off-duty Aurors had come in to help setup the celebrations or bring food. There had, at one point, been a slight whiff of Firewhisky that Percival had chosen to ignore in spirit of the occasion.

This year’s qualifying Junior Aurors were had been promoted to the Senior level the day before. In past years it had still been quite a celebration, but as this was the first class promotion since Grindelwald had practically dismantled their ranks…everyone seemed eager to get back to normal. Bring a bit of cheer back to the Department. And Percival couldn’t deny them that. He of all people knew what the memory of Grindelwald could do, though he imagined his own particular brand of Grindelwald nightmares were a tad different than others’.

Weeks, months, trapped in Grindelwald’s silver matchbox. Used as a potion ingredient farm and a punching bag, the worst moments replayed themselves for him without end during his sleeping hours.

The perfect horror movie, dedicated to waking him with the best reels of his worst memories.

Percival mentally shook himself, rising from where he was seated behind his desk. Outside, the usual bustle of the department rose in volume and laughter had joined in signaling the beginning of the celebration. Straightening his tie and smoothing any flyaway hairs back into position, he exited his office to join the crowd.

 

* * *

 

As he expected, the room looked magnificent. Across one wall, the word ‘Congratulations!’ glittered on a banner, with colorful fireworks exploding across the white backdrop. Music was playing from a large gramophone in the corner, loud enough to dance to but quiet enough that it didn’t drown out the laughter and conversation. The large meeting table was gone, replaced with several smaller tables covered in white tablecloths along the periphery and a couple buffet tables laden with hors d’oeuvres, sweets, and alcohol. The Firewhisky was nowhere to be seen, he noticed, which probably meant it had been mixed into something. He made a mental note to take it easy on the beverages offered.

It seemed that all the Aurors and their significant others (if there was one to be had) had made it.

Senior Auror Belinda Whitakker noticed him over the shoulder of one of the newly promoted Aurors -Richards, maybe?- and her eyes lit up. She waved, smiling.

“Mr. Graves! Will you give a speech tonight, sir?” This request was quick to expand and be adopted by the others. He huffed out a chuckle, and accepted the drink that was quickly pressed into his hand.

“Alright, alright! Quiet down. Since you’ve sprung this on me-“  
“Louder!” Someone shouted from the back of the crowd. Throwing a good natured glare out over the crowds, he stepped onto the nearest chair. A small cheer resounded. He could put aside a little bit of dignity tonight, for this.

“As I was saying…I know this past year has been difficult, considering the circumstances. I’d like to start by saying that I am very proud of how our Department has pulled together to get back on track. It takes sterner stuff to keep together and get back into fighting form the way everyone here has, and that’s something to celebrate. But that’s not why we’re here tonight. Tonight, we’re here to celebrate the promotion of those who join our Senior Ranks. The most promising recruits who, despite the insanity they have endured, have chosen to keep on with us. I know I speak for myself, and President Picquery, when I say that we are thankful. Thank you, all of you, for your continuing service now and in the future. Now, as I am the last thing standing between you and the punch- not you, though, Jacobs, I see you’ve already down a glass- I’ll get off this damn stool and let tonight get on.” He raised his glass in a semi-salute-semi-cheers, and swallowed his drink back in almost one-go.

Time fell into that odd space where it felt fast but slow, dizzying but steady on, as he fell into conversation with his colleagues. It seemed that as one conversation drew to a close, another started up seemlessly. When had he last spent this much time amongst his Aurors, not actively working? Too long ago, apparently. They all seemed pleased to have his somewhat individual attention for their small conversational allotments, grinning under his interest. Even his Senior Aurors, some of whom had been with him for years, were freer with their light ribbing and jokes. Overall, it was much more enjoyable than Percival was expecting.

His normal brand of relaxation involved a book or paperwork in his home office, alone except for a glass of brandy and a fire in the fireplace. His house elf, of course, but Misty preferred to be out of sight until needed, even cleaning the rooms when she knew he wasn’t in them. Traditional that way.

Faces and conversations blurred together until one of the newly promoted Seniors stepped up to him, with a witch at his elbow.

“Mr. Graves, sir. Are you enjoying your evening?” The young man asked, smiling amiably. He had an almost full tumblr in hand, and his companion a glass of punch.

“I am. And you, Mr. Travers?” He returned, slipping his free hand into his pants pocket. The younger man’s smile seemed to get a bit brighter at the recognition, and internally Percival chuckled. The young ones were always pleased at a little extra recognition, even if it was just being correctly named by a superior. How long would that innocence last before it was corrupted by the other Aurors’ ribbing, he could only guess.

“Yes, sir! Oh- I’m bein’ rude, let me introduce my sister here. Mr. Graves, this is my sister Anne-Marie Travers. Anne, this this Percival Graves, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.” The woman beside him blushed lightly as she realized that Percival was, in fact, her brother’s boss.

“Ms. Travers, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Percival extended his hand, and she gripped it to shake it. The firm grip was a contrast to the rather slim fingers, he thought, but it was a pleasant surprise.

“Please, call me Anna. Everyone does.” She said, smiling. It was that moment that her brother noticed both his sister’s and Percival’s glasses were empty. After taking their preferred drink refills, he rushed off across the crowd. With the atmosphere in danger of turning from comfortable silence into awkward silence, Percival reached for what was probably a safe topic of conversation.

“Do you live in New York too, Anne?” He asked politely.

“Oh no, I’m afraid not Mr. Graves. New York is Georgies’ stomping grounds- I’m up in Massachusetts. I teach at Ilvermorny, actually.” She said brightly.

“Percival, please. What is it you teach?”

“Charms is my poison of choice. Mostly First through third year classes, my colleague Professor Hicks prefers taking on the higher levels.”

“Ah, yes. I remember some talk around the office of a new Charms Professor. It was never my speciality, unfortunately.”  
“Talk here?” She tucked a strand of brown hair behind her ear as a part of her surprise.

“Yes, there are a few Aurors here with children in school. There seems to be quite a lot of Thunderbird children from the DMLE, surprisingly.” He nodded, and she grinned.  
“Yes, well that does make sense though. Aren’t all Aurors supposed to be thrill seekers and troublemakers at heart?” She teased lightly. He laughed.  
“Not all of us. I was a Wampus- which I realize might not be helping my case.” She giggled.

“Not much to me, I’m afraid. I’m a Horned Serpent, so you’re all hooligans to me!” They shared a brief smile, though the conversation was cut off as George Travers returned with their drinks,

“Sorry, Annie, the cranberry punch was considerably more alcohol than punch-someone added more vodka, I think it was Heather- so I grabbed you a fruit cocktail. Here you are, Mr. Graves, no ice.” From there, the conversation turned to light work topics and respectful nods peppered with the occasional friendly tease from Anne. Eventually, George brought the conversation to a close, insisting that they mustn’t take up more of his time and that he wanted to introduce Anne to one of his fellow graduates.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Percival.” Anna said quietly as she passed him. Standing so close, he could smell the hint of a warm scented perfume.

“The pleasure was mine, Anne. Enjoy the rest of your night.” He responded, and watched the next couple steps she took as she walked away. He mentally shook himself just as another joined him, this time one of the more matronly Administrative Assistants wanting to confirm that the presence of Firewhiskey wasn’t going to be punished (“No, not tonight Mrs. Burbage.”). It took him a moment to understand what the woman had been asking, with the scent of Ms. Traver’s perfume still in his nose.

Later, as he sat in front of his office fireplace with his nightcap in hand, trying to avoid sleep, he mused over the meeting with the young Ms. Travers. It had been a long time since he had noticed a woman’s perfume. Time made longer by his stint in Grindelwald’s matchbox. A younger, less reserved Percival Graves might have pursued a longer conversation, tried a few moves to test the waters. He used to be very good with the ladies, although always making it clear he wasn’t interested in the long term. A night or two was safe. Something long term would have taken his undivided attention away from his work, and he had been so driven to reach where he was now. His longest relationship had been with Seraphina Picquery, and even that was both quite short and over a decade ago.

These thoughts saw him to sleep, but nightmarish reruns of whispered _crucios_ left him waking in fits and starts.


	2. Two

It’s not until later that week that Percival runs into the witch again. Anne and her brother are standing in the bullpen, chatting with some of his coworkers when Percival leaves his office. It’s uncommon for Aurors to bring their family to work, but it does happen. This area is open to civilians, people visiting or reporting something alike. He just hopes that despite being fairly green, Travers knows better than to try and show off the cells or interrogation rooms.

Percival takes a moment to observe the small gathering, although he will admit that he spends more time observing Anne Travers than his Aurors. She’s wearing a very soft looking dark green sweater today, under practical brown robes. It being the coldest day this winter, she has also elected not to remove her toque. She must have made an effort to curl her hair up underneath it, as long as it was at the party, but a couple of the brunette strands have come free and hang down her neck. His fingers itch to play with them.

Ridiculous, he thought, _I don’t even know the witch. Honestly Graves get it together._

His feet are moving forward before he can stop them.

“Aren’t you off-duty today, Mr. Travers?” He asks, and Travers nods.

“Yessir, but Anne is leaving the day after tomorrow and wanted to see where I spend my days. You remember Anne?” He gestured to the witch, who smiled brightly. Percival felt something warm in his chest a little.  
“Yes, of course. Good afternoon, Anne.” He inclined his head, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

“Hello, Percival.” Her voice, now that it didn’t have to compete with music and crowds, was low and warm. Friendly. Whatever it was in his chest got a little warmer.

“Enjoying your visit, then? I hope Mr. Travers has shown you more of New York than just the Woolworth building.” He joked lightly. There were polite titters from the Aurors, and Anna chuckled.

“Yes, of course. You have a wonderful park just across the street!” She grinned, and Travers rolled his eyes.

“Yes yes, very funny-“ and then the conversation sinks to good natures ribbing from the native New Yorkers. Percival is tempted to join in, also ‘born and raised’, but the pressure in his bladder reminds him why he had roused himself from the mountain of paperwork on his desk. He excuses himself quietly, and gets some quick but respectful nods. He’s glad for that.

His kidnapping and subsequent impersonation had fooled many in MACUSA, and anyone else close enough or clever enough to catch on had been removed in various ways, from occupational relocation to ‘workplace accidents’. When he finally returned from recuperating, some months after his rescue, he had found that he needed to work hard to reestablish the trust of his colleagues and underlings. It was no less than he expected, of course, but it was hard. It took months and frequently leaving his office door open while he was working for the easy camaraderie and trust he had enjoyed before his disappearance to return. More than once during this period he had looked up from whatever document he was working on, or coffee he was drinking, to see a curious pair of eyes peeking in on him. He worked with-and trained many-of these Aurors, and he could forgive them their distrust. He avoided fieldwork until he felt that the Aurors felt he was ‘safe enough’ to work with again, although none of them had come right out and mentioned their discomfort; instead, he has swallowed his pride and insisted that he was still a little shaky and would prefer the Senior Aurors head any groundwork for the time being.

Slow and steady had eventually done the trick, with light ribbing and trust returning in due time. He couldn’t care less what the other departments thought; for them, he thought Seraphina’s word would have to do. But for his department, for those lives who needed to trust him to depend on him, he wanted them to feel...not threatened, when he walked into the room.

This time, when he walked back into the room, the laughing group had broken up and the affectionately termed ‘trouble light’ was flashing. Something had happened, and they were being called in.

“...Mathers and Whittaker are still at that enchanted teapot investigation, and since we sent Frida home sick earlier,” Auror Ross was arguing with an irate Auror Jacobs, “You’re not going alone!” Jacobs had his arms crossed with a scowl on his face. He was just about to open his mouth to argue against her when Percival decided to step in.

“Why are two of my Senior Aurors arguing like children when we’ve got a callout?” He asked, and Jacobs was quick to jump in.

“Ross has decided I’m not capable enough to do a routine drive by on some underage magic case.” He spit out, still glaring at the woman.

“Now see here, Jacobs, you know it’s against protocol to-“

“It’s an underage magic, probably on accid-“

“Probably is not a fact!”  
“Enough, both of you!” Percival interrupted sharply, and they both fell silent, “I expect more than squabbling coming from two seasoned Aurors in this department. Jacobs, yes, it might be accidental but it might also be a dangerous situation. You are not going alone. Ross, changing up the queue is not your call. Now, Auror Yates was sent home earlier due to illness and we need two aurors here and two being sent out. Who is next on call?” He addressed the question to a suitably chastened Ross.

“McGrady, sir. I’ll floo him.” She was about to spin and do just that when Travers, who had been standing on the outskirts of the argument, piped up.

“Actually, sir, I’d be more than happy to step in, since I’m already here and all.” Percival gave him a quick once over, then flicked his gaze over to Anna and back again.

“You’re off-duty and showing your sister around, Travers. I wouldn’t ask that of you.”  
“It’s no problem sir. We were done here anyways, just heading down for something to eat before we went home. You can find something in the icebox, can’t ya Annie?”He looked at his sister over his shoulder. She smiled gently and shrugged her shoulders. Her head cocked to one side, amused.

“I’m sure I can find something edible in that kitchen of yours. Go save the world.” Percival couldn’t deny the young Auror’s eager eyes. It would, after all, be his first case as a Senior.

“Alright, fine. You’re with Jacobs. Jacobs, I don’t want to hear of you trying to cut anymore corners- If I have to send you back to your family in a box, I’ll bring you back as a ghost to rip you a new one. Understood?” Jacobs smirked.

“Understood, Boss.”  
“Good. Ross, get in the floo and let the next guys on call know they might be needed if you get called out.” She left to do just that. Travers gave his sister a quick hug before jogging out the main doors after Jacobs.

The weekend skeleton crew now gone to attend their own orders, Percival looked at Anne apologetically.

“I apologize, Ms. Travers, for interrupting your evening plans.” He said. She shook her head, smiling ruefully.

“It’s the life, I understand. He was right, we were just leaving for supper anyways, and I know I already told you to call me Anna.” She corrected him, and he grinned back.

“Even still. I hope it didn’t disrupt any reservations?” She shook her head.

“Oh no, no reservations. I think he mentioned something about a place called _The Sloppy Unicorn_?” Percival knew of that pub, somewhere the Aurors frequented quite often. Open all hours, good food, and low prices- something the owner called the ‘Auror Special’, as a return for keeping the rowdier customers at bay when needed. He nodded, but otherwise found himself tongue tied. When had he been one to get tongue tied around pretty women? He wasn’t quite that rusty, was he?

Just as the silence was about to tip into awkwardly long, she broke it.

“Actually, could you just point me back to the foyer? I don’t think I could manage it without getting lost.” She grinned self-deprecatingly. He chuckled, appreciating how the mood lightened at the confession.

“It can feel like a maze, that’s true. Here, I’ll walk you out.” He said, waving an arm as an invitation for her to begin walking.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to interrupt your work Percival.”

“I’m not supposed to be in today, anyways, so it’s not a problem.”  
“If you insist.” Another smile as she passed him, another waft of perfume. He was probably enjoying the scent a little too much.

 

They had just stepped off the lift and into the cavernous MACUSA foyer when she turned to him. The trip up from the DMLE had been pleasant, with light small talk.Percival was almost sad to see it end. For a witch he had only just met, he already found himself enjoying her company.

“Would you be interested in finding some supper with me?” She asked abruptly, and he blinked at her in surprise. Before he could reply, she rushed on, “I know I told George I could find something at home, but he really does have a bachelor’s kitchen, and I’d like to talk some more. If you’d like. I mean, if you don’t have other plans?” The question was punctuated with a delicate click as she snapped her mouth shut definitively, apparently attempting to cut off her own rambling. Percival’s shock wore off with that, and he found himself getting warm again.

“No, no plans. I’d like that. Um, perhaps your original plan? _The Sloppy Unicorn_?” He kicked himself mentally. Percival Graves had not stuttered since Ilvermorny, and he wouldn’t start again now. But Anne didn’t seem to notice, and her slightly nervous smile kicked up a few watts.

“That sounds great. After you, Mr. Graves.” she teased.  
“I know I’ve told you to call me Percival, Ms. Travers.”

 

* * *

 

Despite his fondness for _The Sloppy Unicorn_ -he himself had spent many nights mingling with his staff there, once upon a time-he hadn’t been for a very long time. Work, then the Grindelwald incident, then just…he was loathe to admit it, but it might have been a touch of agoraphobia while he recovered. Then it was more work.

Regardless, it had been months since he had last had an evening in the pub. Anne, however, had been immediately charmed but the place and immediately ordered a Gigglewater. Percival requests a glass of nettle wine, and they decide to share a plate of fries.

The conversation stays light, at first. She mentions she grew up in a small town in Canada, and he shares that he’s never lived anywhere but New York for an extended period of time. She explains that shortening her and her brother’s names with an ‘ie’ is a habit started by their mother that stuck, and he talks about his younger two brothers and his parents; a French father and an Italian mother. He’s trilingual, and delights her with switching effortlessly between the three. At one point, she chokes on her drink with laughter while he retells a story from his childhood involving three guilty little boys, a quaffle, and his mother’s broken wedding clock. He learns that most of her childhood was spent in the dirt, learning at her mother’s elbow how to grow even the most difficult plants and how to process them into sellable potions ingredients. “My feet and hands were dirt coloured for years until I went to school. And then my mother was so disappointed when I fell in love with flying!” she giggled, taking another sip.

Over their main course, they discovered an equal love for flying and quidditch. She taught the flight lessons on top of beginner Charms classes, and helped referee the Quidditch games in her free time. She had been a Seeker, and he a Chaser.

“Wait- You’re P.H. Graves? The Chaser from Wampus with the plaque on the second floor awards case?” She asked, lowering her fork, eyes wide. Amused but confused by her reaction, he nodded slowly.

“I once had to scrub that damn plaque seven times during a detention!” She exclaimed, now brandishing her fork at him with a smirk. And that sparked a discussion on age, and school graduation dates. She was seven years younger than him. Had her parents not decided to hold her back a year, due to her funnily-placed birthday, they might’ve gone to school together for a year. Of course, 17 year old Percival probably wouldn’t have noticed a small Horned Serpent Firstie.

 

* * *

 

 

Conversation got a little heavier while he walked her home. Anne’s strong warming charm helped keep them warm during the three block walk. Neither suggested apparition, although both had confirmed in passing earlier in the evening that they could do it. Percival’s chest was just unwaveringly warm, and he didn’t think it was the charm.

They had been talking about work when the topic of the Grindelwald Incident came up. He hadn’t mentioned specifically what had happened to him, but his speech had gotten considerably slower when he began explaining why this year’s promotion party had been so enthusiastic. His fleeting hope that she didn’t know what his part in it had been was dashed when she placed her hand in the crook of his elbow and squeezed comfortingly, looking up at him with sympathetic eyes. She, blessedly, didn’t say anything about it and by the time the conversation had lightened up again, they were on the steps of her brother’s apartment building.

“Will I be seeing you at the MACUSA Christmas Gala?” He asked easily, ignoring the nervous twinge in his gut. It wasn’t like he was asking her to said gala, he reasoned.

_Get it together, Graves. It’s been two days. Less than._

He couldn’t help but feel happy when she responded with an affirmative. He felt like he could get used to the rather adorable way her dimples showed when she smiled at him.

‘ _Adorable”, Graves? Really?_

“Thank you for stepping in as my dinner date, and for walking me home, Percival.” He could also get used to the way his name sounded between her lips.

“Of course, Anne.” She touched his elbow briefly before turning away to open the door.

“Erm-“ It was out of his mouth before he could stop it. She turned back, questioningly, “I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow night.”  
She smiled endearingly. “See you tomorrow night.”

That sounded more like a promise than an agreement.

 


	3. Three

“Wait, wait, wait. Lemme get this straight. You went on a date with my boss?”

On the other side of the bathroom door, Anne rolled her eyes. George had repeated the same sentence three times already, but the incredulity hadn’t faded even a little. She finished pinning her hair in place and began straightening her dress as she answered.

“For the fourth time, Georgie, it was not a date! It was two acquaintances having dinner. That’s all.”

One beat of silence. Two beats.

“But do you want it to be a date?”

She swung the door open wide in exasperation. George jumped back, and she realized in passing that he must have been crowding the door quite closely. He stared at her dumbly for a second.

“Annie you look real spiffy in that.” He said with a grin. For a moment, her irritation faded and she was about to thank him for the sweet compliment when-

“Mr. Graves’ll be stuck on you for sure tonight!”

She growled and flicked her wand, sending several of her cosmetics jars to fly passed and begin bumping into his head from all angles.

“Argh! Annie! St-stop it!” He cried from behind his arms, which has been thrown up in front of his face for protection. She just laughed, and walked passed him to slip into her heels.

Her outfit wasn’t as flashy as some of the more modern 1927 fashions, she mused, but then she didn’t like the bright colours circulating the rest of the North American Wizarding World. She had seen a lot of chartreuse in the shop windows back in Ilvermorny Village. The drop waist dress had a black skirt of light velvet, and grey beading swirled up from the waist to curl and splay up around her bosom. It also separated the black skirt from the light cream coloured top, which was studded with clear and white beads. Her shoes completed the look rather satisfactorily, she thought, finishing the buckle on the t-strap heels. The silver had faded a little, but she put it out of her mind.

George was still batting at the cosmetics jars, so she sighed fondly and waved her wand before tucking it into a wand-sized holster pocket in the seam of her skirt. A worthwhile alteration she was thankful for.

The cream rouge was the last to go, and it (rather vindictively) left a pink smear across the tip of his nose as it left. He huffed at her, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiping at it. She rolled her eyes, tying a black headband over carefully charmed finger waves- honestly, Anna had seen the no-maj women do their hair the same way, but she had no idea how they kept it up with no magic. Without her hair stasis charms, she was sure they would have fallen out in minutes.

By the time the last knot was secured, George had pulled his own robes on and was holding her wrap. She shifted it on over her shoulders, charming it with a small tap of her wand to help it warm her.

And then, grasping on to her brother, they disapparated.

 

* * *

 

Apparation into MACUSA was prohibited to anyone other than the President, or select witches or wizards personally brought into the wards by said President. For special events like this, however, MACUSA officials were kind enough to appropriate an alley across from the Woolworth building. Covered in Notice-Me-Not spells, sound muffling spells, and all sorts of other protections, witches and wizards in attendance could apparate in and (carefully) cross the street. 

Anne was quite happy to step into the foyer and leave the cold behind. Despite her warming charm, the cold still managed to sting at her ankles and toes.

She could hear the music and laughter from the foyer, but once she surrendered her wrap to the House Elf guarding the closet and stepped onto the stairs leading up to the main floor, she nearly stopped in her tracks to ogle the normally cavernously empty room. The striped walls had been draped with enormous red and green swathes of fabric that pooled on the floor, and there seemed to be hundreds of tiny glittering lights moving lazily in the air a few feet above. The gold accents of the room and the floor tiles seemed to shine, reflecting Anne’s face back at her when she looked down. A small orchestral band played a classical tune in the corner. The Salem Memorial remained undecorated, but the pavilion above it was decorated in mistletoe, ivy, and Christmas roses. It smelled fantastic, but Anne didn’t have time to take it all in before Georgie was tugging her over to the refreshments table.

Anne rolled her eyes affectionately- Georgie had always seemed to immediately vanish everything on his plate. His father had used to tease that he had the Vanishment spell under wraps well before Ilvermorny.

It wasn’t until they had small plates of hors d’oeuvres and a glass of punch each (thanks to the enchanted ice sculpture who had used his hat to ladle them each a portion) that something occurred to her.

“Georgie, there’s no possible way the entirety of MACUSA can fit in the foyer.”  
He stuffed a profiterole in his mouth, chewed twice, and then swallowed.

“Nah, that’s why the party’s technically three levels large. Finish your asparagus roll, I’ll show you.” 

He was right. The main floor seemed to be dedicated to food, drink, and conversation. The second was very similar to the first, but felt much more intimate due to the presence of an actual ceiling. Here, there were tables for sitting at and warm food to eat, not just appetizers to be nibbled at while standing with your company. A fish bowl of merrily crackling fire adorned each table, lighting the room just enough.

The third floor was the most packed. It seemed to be mostly dance floor; orbs of light floated above the heads of the dancers, doing a wonderful job of illuminating the room. Chairs lined the walls, but it didn’t seem as though anyone had felt the inclination to use them yet as only a handful were unavailable. Instead of the orchestra filling the room with cheery, yet low, music, a very large gramophone sat in the corner belting out more upbeat music. Couples swung around the floor, swirling effortlessly from step to step.

Anne’s toe began tapping, and Georgie smirked. Taking her empty glass, he set it on a floating tray filled with similarly dirty dishes.

“Do you remember the steps?” He asked. She laughed.

“Remember them? How dare you. That’s almost an insult, sir.” She joked, and he tugged her forward.

“Well come on, then, slow poke!”

The next half hour was spent on the dance floor with her brother, doing her best to step on his toes. Not that it made much of a difference, at one point he had simply finished the dance with her standing on his feet. When they finally quit for a break, Anne collapsed in one of the chairs with George beside her, and pushed an errant strand of hair back behind her ear. Apparently she had missed a spot with her charms, she mused, and was preparing to mutter the spell once again when a woman came up. She smiled timidly, and Anne immediately placed her as one of the secretaries she had met at George’s promotion party.

“H-Hello Mr. Travers! Wonderful party, isn’t it?”  
“That it is, Dolores. You look… you look pretty wonderful yourself.” George stammered back, and then the pair went silent. Anne’s eyes darted back and forth for a few seconds, watching the two begin to blush and waiting for the next exchange. Eventually she needed to stifle an exasperated sigh.

“Well, Georgie, I think I’ll sit this next one out…I was never much of a fan, sorry. But why don’t you ask- Dolores, wasn’t it?- Dolores to match with you?” Her unsubtle push had the desired effect, as George squeaked out an ‘Of course, may I?’ and straightened his waistcoat. Anne slumped slightly, and wiggled her toes in her heels as she watched George and the pretty young woman do what she thought might have been a reformed ‘ants in the pants’ version of dancing.

“Now what on earth do you think they call that?” A deep voice asked. She snapped her head to the left and felt an immediate bubbling of butterflies in her stomach, warming her from head to toe.

“Why hello Mr. Graves. I think it’s called the Black Bottom dance… rather… enthusiastic, isn’t it?” He laughed, bending slightly at the waist. She smiled up at him.

“Quite. Not your speed, then?”  
“Not at all. Yours?”  
“Mmm. No. Is this seat taken?”  
“Not at all.” Anne mimicked, and he smiled. They watched the flailing dancers for a few moments, and this time the silence wasn’t in danger of falling into awkwardness at all. Anne felt acutely aware of the man sitting beside her, practically felt the warmth through his suit jacket where it touched her bare arm. The chairs were fairly close together, if she shifted just a little more her knee would brush up against his-

She stifled a jump just a second later when the slightly coarse fabric of his wool suit pants brushed up against her bare knee. She was flummoxed for a moment, keeping her head still but swinging her eyes downwards to look. Had she moved? She could have sworn she hadn’t moved. Her thoughts were quieted a couple seconds later Percival’s knee began retreating ever so slightly, back to his original position, and she unthinkingly swivelled in her seat the few millimetres to keep contact. He stilled immediately, and a moment later relaxed back into the touch.

She bit the tip of her tongue to keep herself from smiling too widely, and tried her best to ignore the warm flip in her tummy.

Eventually the song faded, another one quick on its heels. Georgie and Dolores seemed to mutually agree to continue on, and after a slightly jerky start began a waltz.

She saw Percival’s hand moving out of the corner of her eye before she felt the soft touch of his fingertips on her arm. He leaned over.

“Would you like to dance with me? Now that something reasonable is playing?” He asked quietly. Anne didn’t understand the look in his eye for a moment- his tone was slightly humorous, and his touch was light, but his eyes… they seemed slightly heavy. She didn’t want to say sad, but… was he expecting her to say no?  
“Yes of course! I love this song.” She smiled at him, and the confusion lifted when his smile deepened. The heaviness lifted, replaced with an openness. She took his offered hand and he led her out into the crowd, deeper in than George and Dolores.

 

* * *

 

The first dance was fairly stiff, as they got used to each other. While unfamiliar, Anne found his touch to be quite comfortable. His hand was warm through the fabric of her dress, the way she remembered his arm being when they had walked home from the pub. She was quite sure that her cheeks had a permanent pink tinge to them once he took her other hand in his, although she thanked the heavens that her body had enough invested in this going well as her brain did, because her palms didn’t sweat. That would have made her blush in an entirely mortifying way.

He danced with an elegance that seemed second nature, and she only hoped that she did it justice. She loved dancing, but she had picked it up in her later school years from Pureblooded friends. Percival, it seemed, had it ingrained in his step. Anne briefly wondered if it had anything to do with dueling, but she didn’t have time to dwell as he twirled her again.

The second, third, and fourth dances were just as smooth but more fun, as they became more relaxed with the closeness. As the last ended, she curtsied to his bow and they laughed lightly as a faster song started up.

“Oh no- the Charleston. I’m sorry, Percival, I absolutely cannot dance the Charleston. I look like a chicken when I try.” She begged off, and he grinned.

“I never have, and I don’t want to start tonight,” He relented without persuasion and they began making their way off the dance floor, “Although I doubt you’ve ever looked so undignified as a chicken.” He continued, winking at her, She felt a renewed warmth spread across her nose.

“You best not talk to my brother then.” She responded, pushing the same errant lock of hair back.

Instead of going back to ‘their’ chairs, which she noticed had been long taken, they were quickly intercepted by a woman dragging a ginger haired man by the elbow. He seemed rather enamoured with Anne’s shoes, and she hoped desperately he wasn’t about to say something about their slight shabbiness.

“Hello Mr. Graves! I didn’t know you could dance, sir.”

“Just one or two, Tina. Hello Mr. Scamander, I didn’t realize you were back in America again.” The ginger man’s eyes flicked up to Percival for a few seconds.

“Yes. Not for too long, just wanted to give Tina a copy of my book, you see.”

“Yes. Well, I hope your permits are in order this time around.” Percival said lightly, although by the way the woman-Tina-seemed to wince, there was a story behind it.

“Wait a moment- Scamander? As in-“ Anne broke in,  
“-Theseus Scamander’s brother, yes.”  
“-the author of Fantastic Beasts?” She and the ginger haired man spoke together, and both looked equally as flabbergasted.

“Well, yes, that’s me.” He said, and she smiled widely.

“Oh I had hoped so. Professor Highguard just got approval from the Headmasterto put your book on the required reading list for our new Creature Care class! He lent me his copy, it was absolutely wonderful.” She gushed a little, and Mr. Scamander blinked.

“You- you’ve read… Creature Care class?” He stammered. Anne’s smile turned apologetic.

“Oh I’m sorry- my name is Anne-Marie Travers. I’m a professor at Ilvermorny.” She said.

“No, the apologies are mine,” Percival interrupted, “I should have introduced you. Anne, this is Tina Goldstein and Newt Scamander. Tina is one of my Aurors, and, well, you seem to already know of Mr. Scamander. Tina, Mr. Scamander, this is Anne-Marie Travers.”

“Travers? As in George Travers’…?” Tina trailed off in question as they shook hands, and Anne filled in the rest of her sentence.

“I’m his sister, yes. He’s currently doing a wonderful attempt at the Charleston over there.” She gestured lightly over her shoulder. Both Scamander and Tina’s eyes seemed to find him.

“The Charleston…isn’t that a Muggle dance?” Scamander asked, again not quite making eye contact. Tina huffed and glared slightly at Scamander, and from her left she heard Percival let out a quiet, but amused, breath. Anne looked between Tina and Scamander with confusion.

“Mug- Oh, you mean No-Maj. Well, yes, I suppose it began there. But with all sorts of connections to the non-magical world, there is going to be some transference. We have non-fraternization laws, but those only go so far. We live in their cities, for one thing. For another, there are squibs who walk in both world. We can’t really expect families to fracture that badly.” Anne explained, and Tina rolled her eyes.

“Oh he knows, Ms. Travers, he’s just being difficult. Apparently, Britain does it better and all that.” It sounded as though this was a conversation that had been had before. Anne looked up at Percival, who offered her a small smile. More reserved while in direct contact with one of his underlings, she could understand. It wasn’t as though she was going to let loose of all her professionalism with the Prefects while she was at work, either.

There was a few more moments of conversation before Tina and Newt (Clarence Highguard was going to be positively green with envy when she told him she was on a first name basis with the author of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them!) left to do some dancing of their own. Apparently, Newt explained, the quickstep had much in common with the mating dance of an Erkling pair. As much as she was eager to see his rendition of it, she and Percival were quickly overcome by other colleagues of Percival’s in succession of each other. She realized, later, that she hadn’t really needed to stay with him while he talked. On the other hand, she had quite enjoyed meeting some of them, and Percival hadn’t seemed like she was intruding. In fact, he had made a point to introduce her from thereon, and even brought her into the conversations. At one point, her hand had once again found its way into the crook of his arm without her noticing. She blushed quite red when, after being formally introduced to _the_ _President_ _of_ _the_ _Magical_ _Congress_ _of_ _the_ _United_ _States_ _of_ _America_ , President Picquery’s eyes had darted down to their join before flicking up to Percival’s with a mischievous glitter. She hadn’t stayed long after that, and Percival had cooly refused to mention it further, but Anne was certain it wouldn’t be the last he would hear about it. She tried to slip her hand away, but he had covered it with his own and kept it in place. After the President had turned away he looked down and winked at her. She was only slightly embarrassed about her ensuing giggle.

After a while, when there was finally a break in the approaching witches and wizards, she realized she had lost track of time chatting. George hadn’t come to reclaim her, and she wasn’t quite sure she wanted to go looking for him yet either if he had decided to disappear for some quiet time with Ms. Dolores. At some point during the flow of conversation, they had relocated to a quieter corner of seats away from the dance floor, and she took the respite to smile at her companion. She was about to ask him if he’d like a drink-she was absolutely parched-when a shadow fell over them.

Looking up, a rather fierce looking man with dark, bushy eyebrows stood there with a pinched looking woman. The wrinkles around her nose seemed to suggest she was permanently smelling something awful.

“Mr. Gazi. Mrs. Gazi. Pleasure to seeyou. May I introduce-“ Percival wasn’t able to finish his sentence.

“Sorry, Director Graves, but it’s come to my attention that the wizards in charge of security have been indulging in the Gigglewater, so to speak, while on duty.” Percival, already irritated at being interrupted, raised an eyebrow.

“All of them, Gazi?” The other man shifted his weight, lips still pursed.

“No, sir, just the ones in the offices-“

“You mean Wallace, Braithwaite, and Langley?”  
“Yes sir. I thought you would-“

“I gave them permission, Gazi, to have a drink after their shifts ended if they so desired one. You are right, though, they should have changed to civvies first. Was there anything else you needed, or would you like to relax for the night?” Percival pushed on, his tone amused with a tinge of impatience. The wrinkles around Mrs. Gazi’s nose deepened.

“No, Sir. That’s all. I just thought that after the Grindlewald Incident, you of all people should be informed when people…relax… but if you knew about it, sir, I’m relieved. Have a nice night, Director. Ma’am.” And the man turned on his heel to leave, wife tucked cleanly under his arm, without waiting for another word from Percival.

Percival, whose hand had curled into a fist on his knee. Anne followed the line of his arm and collarbone to his jaw, and her heart sank a little when she realized it was clenched. Percival’s eyes were staring in the direction Gazi and his wife had left, although they weren’t within sight anymore. A muscle in Percival’s jaw worked for a moment.

Anne was not a stupid woman. She knew that Grindlewald had personally hurt the Director sitting beside her prior to the ‘Grindlewald Incident’, as Gazi had so delicately put it. Newspapers across the Americas had reported how the Dark wizard had assumed the appearance and life of MACUSA’s DMLE Director for many months before his disguise had been thwarted and Director Graves had been found in a small silver matchbox in the pocket of the Dark wizard himself. Of course, how Grindelwald had been discovered and the events leading up to the mass-obliviation of the No-Majs in New York had been fuzzy. Ongoing case, and all that.

Anne also knew when a slight had been issued- and just looking at Percival showed her how deeply it had cut. It had been cruel, she decided, to not only take a pass at a man who had been victimized in such a way, but to do it on a night that he hadn’t been so affected. At least, he had seemed to be light hearted for most of the time she had spent with him that night- not including the heaviness of his anticipation for her to deny him a dance.

Wallowing in the words of a mean man wouldn’t do.

“Percival. Could you, perhaps, escort me to the nearest refreshments table? I’m really thirsty.” She slipped her hand back into the crook of his-now tense-elbow. He looked over at her for a moment, and she forced her expression to stay the same. In a measure of only a few moments, he seemed to have aged a hundred years. A tiredness had invaded his face, but with an encouraging smile from her it did ease. He got to his feet, bringing her up with him.

“Of course.”  
She made sure that he got a little bit of everything with chocolate on it, just for good measure.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t until after the last dance of the evening that Anne saw George again. It was a slow song, and an appropriately timed foxtrot, that brought her close enough to learn her head on his shoulder. It wasn’t good dancing form, she knew, and it also felt incredibly gutsy. She had known this man for a matter of days, and only been on two dates- did this even count as a date? She had been with him more than her own brother this evening, so she decided it counted. Besides, it was the closest she had been to a man she was most definitely attracted to in ages.

He didn’t seem to mind the closer contact. And she was sure she wasn’t imagining the gentle, almost non-existent, pressure of the line of his jaw against the back of her head. She was also sure that they were getting a couple stares. Had Tina’s incredulity at her boss dancing been closer to the mark than Anne had thought?

She chose not to dwell on it. As the song stretched on, she knew it was only a matter of minutes that she was able to stay in his arms like this. It was silly. Only two dates (yes, she told herself, tonight counts!) and she was already dreading the fact that she probably wouldn’t be seeing this man again, and if she did it wouldn’t be anytime soon. The next semester was coming up, so she had to be at the school. And besides, even if she could find the time or resources to visit Georgie again, he was definitely going to be busy with work and it wasn’t like she could hang around the Aurors office waiting to see his handsome boss again. She wasn’t that desperate. What reason could she give?

So once the dance ended, and the precious extra seconds afterwards that they used to continue holding each other until just before it became unseemly, she let him go. Pit in the bottom of her stomach, she accepted his arm again as he led her off the dance floor for the last time that evening.

“I’m not entirely sure where Georgie got off to…” She trailed off, trying and failing to spot her brother among the couples leaving the room. Percival, who had some height on her, evidently couldn’t see them either.

“How about we go down to the coat check. Eventually he has to end up there too.” He suggested, and she nodded.

“Excellent idea.”

 

His coat, it turned out, was still there and so he hadn’t left yet. She retrieved her wrap, and as Percival was gallantly helping her slide it on, Georgie appeared.  
“Where did you end up? I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” Anne raised an eyebrow and straightened his very crooked tie with a flick of her wand, taken from her holster-pocket.

“And now you’ve found me. Are you ready to leave?” She asked. He shrugged.

“Yeah, just let me say goodbye to Dolores- oh, hello, Mr. Graves. Thank you for keeping an eye on Annie for me.” Anne scoffed in offence, and Percival shook his head.

“She’s more than capable, Mr. Travers, but I should be thanking her for her company tonight.” Georgie was beginning to open his mouth again, with a suspicious twinkle in his eye, so Anne cut him off.

“I believe that’s Dolores over by the stairs. Best say goodbye before she leaves.” She suggested coldly. He did an about-face to escape her glare. Percival chuckled.

“And you, Mr. Graves.” She turned to him. He raised his eyebrow.

“And me, Ms. Travers?”  
“Thank you very much for being _my_ company this evening. I had a lot of fun.” She said, purposely contradicting his statement to her brother. He smiled back at her.

“The pleasure was mine,” A pause, “Anne, can I ask you a question?” She blinked.

“Of course. What is it?”  
“I hope I’m not being too forward, or misreading you, but would you permit me to write to you? Once you return home.” The heaviness was back in his eyes, despite the gentle confidence that must have spurred the question. She had hoped to see the last of the resignation earlier in the night, but that Gazi man must have chipped away just enough. She cursed him in her mind, with an inkling that whatever she was seeing here might have to do with his capture at the hands of Grindelwald. A man does not become the Director of the Department for Magical Law Enforcement without some confidence in his own ability. Magical ability or otherwise.

“I’d like that, Percival. Really.” She took his hand and squeezed gently. His smile softened.

“You leave tomorrow?”  
She nodded, “Well, really, later today if that clock is to be believed. But yes.”  
“Then please owl me when you get home safely. Best travels, Ms. Travers.” He said quietly, below the din of other conversations.  
“Thank you, Mr. Graves. Goodnight.”

Her brother had excellent timing, and they left within minutes.

 

* * *

 

Her stomach was swooping when she and Georgie finally touched down in his apartment, and it had nothing to do with the apparation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I based Gazi off of one of the Unidentified Aurors in the Major Investigation Department from FBWTFT. The actor’s name is Akin Gazi, you can find it on the Harry Potter Wiki.


	4. Four

December 19, 1927

Dear Percival,

I hope this letter finds you well, and in a decent amount of time. We’ve had quite the storm here, and I’m worried the owl might be set back a while. This is Hermia, and if I know her she’s already clacked her beak at you once or twice. Don’t worry, she’s really quite sweet underneath the bluster. If you have a treat or two handy, that might win her over even quicker. I reached Ilvermorny without any real excitement, which is both a relief and slightly boring; I do love to fly, so a little challenge in the airstream might have made the flight more interesting, but on the other hand I hate the cold. Speaking of, is it still terribly chilly there? George said the temperatures there during my visit were much colder than it usually gets. It definitely felt like winter. At the very least, your department floor was nice and warm. It was such a pleasure meeting you during my visit, and thank you again for your company during the gala. You’re an accomplished Quidditch player, can speak three languages, and you know how to dance? Colour me impressed, Mr. Graves. What is it you can’t do?

Warmly,

Anne-Marie Travers


	5. Five

December 20, 1927

Dear Anne,

I’m pleased to hear you made it home safely, and ahead of the storm you wrote about. Your owl did seem to be quite irritated about the weather, if the snap at my knuckle and the slightly soggy feathers are to be believed. You were, however, right about the treats. She seems to have warmed up quite quickly since then.

Unfortunately the weather here hasn’t improved yet. We’re getting ready for the coldest Christmas since I was a boy. It’s unfortunate that you were unable to extend your visit a few days, to spend it with your brother. Will you be traveling to see your parents, instead? You mentioned they live in Canada, if my memory serves me properly?

You flatter me, Anne. But I suppose out of the extracurriculars my mother insisted I begin learning at home, dancing was my favourite. From a work standpoint, it also had the surprising effect of helping me with my dueling stances.

 ~~You’re quite~~ ~~Thank you for~~ It was a pleasure to dance with you. Did you grow up with dance lessons as well?

And, if you must know, I’ve been told my baking is akin to eating rocks.

 

Sincerely,

Percival Graves


	6. Six

December 21, 1927

Dear Percival,

Oh dear. No baking skills? However will you survive.

It’s a good thing I’m rather competent in the kitchen, then. I have to be, really, since I spent a lot of time there helping my mother process the garden greens (both for our table and the family business- I did mention my parents farm potion ingredients for apothecaries, didn’t I?). Let me know if you need any tips.

No, unfortunately I’ve agreed to stay back and supervise the students staying over the holidays. It’s alright, though. To be expected when you move across the continent and all, and besides it’s too far to fly and international portkey is definitely not my favourite method of travel. Your memory hasn’t failed you, my family does live in a small town in the province of Alberta. Just outside it, really. Plenty of outdoor space for their garden, and all the anti No-Maj spells! Ilvermorny has more than enough Christmas cheer to contend with, the Headmistress gets very enthusiastic.

Unfortunately my childhood was spent mostly in the dirt, and my parents didn’t really concern themselves with things like dancing. All their friends needed for a night of entertainment was some homemade nettle wine and the latest potioneer gossip. I didn’t learn how to dance like that until Ilvermorny, and now my friend teaches me all the new dances her sister shows her. Very cosmopolitan, Lucille’s sister.

I know your department is probably rather busy at the moment, since I assume Christmas stops no evil plot, but I hope you find some time to spend the holidays with your family. For all my bluster about portkeys and work, I do miss my family quite a bit around this time of the year. George and I already exchanged gifts this year (those things are always better done in person), but Mom and Dad try to make up for the distance with a long letter and some photographs. Will your brothers be in the area?

 

Warmly,

Anne-Marie


	7. Seven

December 24, 1927

Dear Anne,

I apologize for the tardiness of this letter. ‘Christmas stops no evil plot’, indeed. Inasmuch as the illegal breeding of bowtruckles can be considered an evil plot. I’ve actually just finished penning a letter to your Headmistress, to see if they would be interested in adopting the branches we recovered. Please don’t circulate that too widely- not that it’s considered sensitive information, but the newspapers haven’t been updated yet.

My parents live in the Graves Main House here in New York, so most years I am able to spend the holidays with them. I’ll be heading there as soon as I finish this letter, actually. Ma hates it when I come on Christmas Eve and then leave the next day, but unfortunately she can’t argue with work. Tristan, Arthur and his wife have been there for a couple days already, so that helps.

I remember the Christmas decorations leading up to the holidays were always rather good, but unfortunately I myself never spent a Christmas there. Ma always insisted we come home for the holidays- although I can imagine the feast tonight will be superb. Don’t tell my mother, but I always did think the food there rivalled hers.I tell you that in the strictest confidence, please know that if you do tell her I’m liable to death by wooden spoon.

I am sorry to hear you won’t be able to make it home yourself, although I can understand your dislike for international portkey. I think my own distaste probably stems from the sheer amount of paperwork needed to set one up... Will you get a break from lessons as well, while the students are away?

 

Sincerely,

Percival


	8. Eight

December 24th, 1927

Dear Percival,

Don’t fret, I won’t reveal your secret fondness for school food to your mother- I’d hate to see you pass along so soon. I’m becoming rather fond of you.

Does your mother enjoy cooking?

As for the bowtruckles, the Headmistress hasn’t mentioned anything to me (although I am just the Charms professor, so I don’t see why she would), but if your plan to have them relocated here falls through, you could always try the beast sanctuary in Ireland. Mr. Scamander writes very promising things about it in his book.

The Christmas decorations haven’t changed much since my childhood, so I don’t think they’ve changed too much from what you remember them being. I do, however, have much more respect for the Professors in charge of putting them up every year. I was asked (please read: volun-told) to participate in the decorating committee this year, and I don’t think I’ve ever had to cast _wingardium leviosa_ so many times in my life. You really take for granted the vaulted ceilings when you’re not responsible for hanging the holly, you know. And if I prick my finger on yet another Christmas rose, I think I’ll throw them all in the nearest fireplace. I’ve had to put so much clotting potion on my fingertips I think I’ve developed an immunity.

Forgive me, I didn’t realize how much complaints I had crammed into that paragraph. Ilvermorny really is a beautiful place to spend the holidays, if I cannot get home.You’re very easy to write to, is all. I don’t feel as though I need to censor myself with you. But of course if I am a bore to you, please tell me. Don’t feel as though you need to continue correspondence against your own comfort, please.

I think I should probably end this here. Santa Claus won’t visit if I’m still awake, after all!

 Merry Christmas, Percival.

 

Warmly,

Anne-Marie


	9. Nine

December 25, 1927

Dear Anne,

You’re not a bore. Your letters are a refreshing reminder that there is more in the world than meetings, and criminals. I too enjoy our correspondence, and please, don’t speak in any way other than frankly. I want to know your thoughts.

Speaking of your thoughts, I received an owl back from the Headmistress. Unfortunately the school is unable to take the creatures on, but she did suggest the same sanctuary you did. Once the holidays have ended I’ll get in touch. For now we have Mr. Scamander looking after them; it is fortunate he’s in the country for the holidays.

Perhaps one day you’ll spend Christmas here as well?

I’m not sure Ma enjoys cooking, exactly, but despite the constant goodnatured complaining she is good at it and doesn’t let Poddy do more than assist in the kitchen. Even (perhaps especially) around the major holidays. She grew up without house elves, and it was one of the chores my Grandmother insisted she take over when she could.

I’m sure that under your careful wand, the school looks wonderful. Blood spotted roses and all.

Merry Christmas, Anne.

 

Yours,

Percival


	10. Ten

December 29th, 1927

Dear Percival,

You’re too kind. I’m also a little reluctant to admit that your letter got just a little scrunched up, in a wild attempt to keep it private from my colleague, who insisted she ‘simply must’ see who made me blush like that. Lucille is...enthusiastic. I’m afraid my reflexes have become slightly rusty- perhaps I should start looking into a duelling club here at the school...

I’m pleased to hear Mr. Scamander is on hand to help with the Bowtruckle branches- they’re in good hands. Not that ~~your~~ the Department of Magical Law Enforcement’s hands are bad, of course!

So if your Ma is good at cooking, did you inherit your disability from your father or are you just the black sheep? I don’t believe you’re unable to cook anything, since you live on your own. Actually, I am sorry, I don’t actually know that you live alone- I just assumed. True bachelor or only half?

I’ve taken the liberty to enclose one of the said roses for your inspection. Classes resume in a matter of days, and we’ve been taking the decor down (this is also the reason my letter is so belated, I do apologize for that). I think you’ll find, Director Graves, not a spot of blood on it. I was decorating for Christmas, not Hallowe’en!

 

Warmly,

Anne

 

P.s Alright, you found me out. I _scourfigied_ them as I went.


	11. Eleven

January 3, 1928

Dear Anne,

Thank you for said enclosed specimen. Upon closer inspection, I found I couldn’t find any evidence of self-maiming on it, though with your swift confession I doubt an inquiry will need to be made. Nevertheless, I’ve charmed it into stasis and have put it in my desk drawer for safe keeping. We wouldn’t want it to go missing before your trial, after all.

On a more serious note, I won’t be able to write for a few days. A week or two at most. I’m needed for a field operation and too much mail would be suspicious. I leave tomorrow morning, so I’ve sent this with the earliest morning post with the hope that you will get it before then. I will get in touch again when I return, so don’t worry if you don’t hear from me for a while. 

 

Yours,

Percival

 P.s my house elf, Misty, prevents me from starving. Much to Ma’s chagrin.

 

 

January 3rd, 1928

Dear Percival,

I hope this gets to you before you leave. I entrusted it to our fastest owl. I received your letter a few hours after you sent it (I hope, anyways), and I’m not ashamed to say I inflicted a spontaneous pop quiz to my first years to pen a response.

I don’t know what sort of field operation you’re needed for, and I suppose it’s not really my business, but... be safe, Percival. If they need the Director on it, I cannot imagine it’s a milk run. So to speak.

That’s all. Short letter. Just.... your job is dangerous and I can respect that. What you do is important. I won’t insult you by asking you to be careful- you didn’t get to your position by taking unnecessary risk- but please. Be as safe as you can.

I await your next letter eagerly.

 

Warmly,

Anne


	12. Twelve

January 18th, 1928

Hello Georgie,

I hope you’re well. And eating enough. You need to stock your fridge better, you know. I was wondering if you could tell me if Percival is alright? He said he was going out on a field mission, and wouldn’t be able to get in touch for a few days. I wasn’t worried, until I saw last week’s paper. There was an article on a MACUSA raid....It mentioned a ‘violent stand-off between MACUSA agents and the smugglers that resulted in two MACUSA injuries, but eventually ended with all criminals apprehended’. One of those injuries was severe enough to be hospitalized, but there was nothing more about it.

I don’t expect details about the case, I would never ask that.

 

Love,

Annie

 

P.s please owl mother more often. Her last letter was mostly asking questions about how your holidays went.

 

* * *

 

January 20 1928

Hi Annie,

I’m sorry, but I can’t give you any news on Mr. Graves. I’m unable to comment at all on any ongoing cases, and I know you don’t want details about them but that does include any Aurors that may or may not be working them.... I can’t confirm or deny that Mr. Graves was a part of that operation.

Just give it a couple days, Annie, before you work yourself up.

 

Love,

Georgie

 

P.s sent mom a letter.


	13. Thirteen

January 24th

Dear Percival,

I saw your interview in the paper. Congratulations on catching the smugglers- although when I requested you keep yourself as safe as possible, hospitalization for taking two stunners at once wasn’t quite what I had in mind.

I hope that you’re doing better, now that you’ve been released. Please don’t push yourself, that’s nothing to scoff at.

 

Warmly,

Anne

 

* * *

 

Percival stood by the window. Behind him, a sweat soaked bed with rumpled covers and a fire burning low in its embers. His hair was slicked back with sweat, and his undershirt was sticking to him uncomfortably all over his chest.

Whispers of curses and his own screaming echoed faintly in his head, just barely heard over his own ragged breathing. His knee ached from where he had landed on it when he flailed, half asleep and tormented, from his bed. He could smell the faintly ashy scent of winter in New York through the window pane, and the cold glass seared his forehead and the tip of his nose. It helped to silence Grindlewald’s crooning, and after a few moments he pulled away. Shaken, but not panicked. Turning away from the window, he stripped off the undershirt and dropped it at the end of his bed without stopping. A flick of his wrist brought his housecoat zooming to him from where he had draped it neatly on the chair the night before. The hallway was still lit, as per his instructions to Misty. The fire in the study, however, was not. He stood in the open doorway for a moment, his own shadow stretching long into the room. The dark wood foot of his favourite armchair was just visible in the corner of the light column. With a deep breath, he concentrated on the wandless magic required to light the candles in the room and draw back the curtains. The resultant light was enough to set his nerves at ease.

For a moment he just stands in the doorway and looks around the room before his eyes settle on his liquor cabinet. It’s more ‘late’ than it is ‘early’, and he decides that’s enough persuasion.

By hand, he selects a glass and one of his good scotches. And then, again by hand, he pours and corks and puts it away again. There’s something grounding in the physical control he uses to control the flow and the amount and the speed of the drink that he likes. Needs, even. The only thing he used magic for is an Aguamenti spell. A couple drops of water into the glass makes it a touch cloudy, but Percival has long gotten passed drinking pretty things over good things. That’s a problem for the youth to fight.

He passes the armchair in favour of his desk. He doesn’t even try to convince himself not to answer work letters, and for a moment he just sits and stares out the window. It’s New York, so it’s not a great view, just the street out front, but he looks at the frost swirls on the glass and lets himself float on the scotch for a few minutes. His hair is drying, and it feels itchy on the back of his neck, but he leaves it because at the very least it’s a sensation that isn’t painful.

It isn’t a thousand knives piercing his skin or his muscles contracting and contorting until he’s sure they’re going to break bone. It’s not a burning sensation under his skin or a ripping at his fingertips or the jab of a wand at his temple or a wrenching-

An empty crystal decanter across the room explodes, spraying shards of glass and jerking hin back to the present. He stares at the mess, the evidence of uncontrolled magic and feels utterly tired. Bone weary tired in a way that he can’t even seem to summon up the frustration that he cannot sleep. He’s chasing sleep the way his nightmares chase him.

He chooses to use his wand to repair the decanter.

A half folded letter stares at him from the desktop when he turns back to it. Anne. Her letter had arrived only hours after he returned home from the hospital, but he hadn’t been able to pen a proper response for a couple days. He pushes back the feelings of inadequacy (‘she doesn’t know what she’s getting herself into’ ‘what will she think of a man who can’t even sleep properly’ ‘how can she trust a man who can’t even trust his own magic?’) and pulls the letter back in front of him.

‘...stunners at a time....what I had in mind.... feeling better....’ he’s skimmed this letter at least three times. Should he keep to pleasantries? Should he tell her he’s still recovering? A hint of the mess he is really, just to warn her?

Eventually he picks up his quill.

 

January 26, 1928

Dear Anne,

I’d like to tell you I’m recovering quickly. That I’ll be back in the office tomorrow morning, and just a little sore around the edges. But the truth is that I’m getting older, and two stunners was a bit superfluous. I’ve been released from hospital, but I’m not slotted to return to work for another day- maybe two, if I can’t avoid Madam Picquery. I know that you’re aware of my imprisonment under Grindlewald last year. I’m still recovering from ~~that~~ ~~bastard~~ ~~The~~ ~~torture~~ ~~The~~ the ordeal, and unfortunately the stunners have re-aggravated some of those wounds. I don’t tell you this to make you worry, or in the hopes of misguided pity. Please don’t. I know that, from our conversations both by letter and in person, that you are a smart woman, and wouldn’t have accepted a completely positive response and unrealistic assurances.

Your letter did make me feel a bit better, and I thank you for your well wishes.

 

Yours,

Percival

 

He’s summoned a pigeon and sent it off before he could consider burning the damn thing and replacing it with positivity and optimism. He feels unearthed, sending something so plainly vulnerable to another person. He hasn’t even shared the specifics with his parents. He is the Director, the unshakeable figure in charge of his country’s security, New York directly, and has scared the wits out of numerous recruits and Aurors and criminals.

But he has been shaken. And while he feels too visible, he can’t imagine trying to lie to her when he knows she’ll see right through it.

* * *

Eventually he does fall asleep again, a few hours later. It’s more of a doze, really, in his desk chair with his empty glass in front of him. He’s in the space between sleep and wakefulness, where his brain allows him to float without much issue, when there is an insistent tapping on the window. He jerks, and hisses when the crick in his neck lets him know its there. 

The pigeon he sent earlier is back, and he frowns. Was it unable to get to her? Or did he misread her, and she actually sent it back in a fit over a few days missed post?

Both of those were wrong. It is the same pigeon, but with a new letter. She had written back almost immediately, and- Mercy Lewis what time had it arrived? Had his letter woken her?

 

Dearest Percival,

Thank you for your honesty. You told me in one of your letters that you wanted me to be frank with you, and tell you my thoughts. I can only assure you that I want you to do the same. I won’t pity you, I know you very obviously don’t want that, but I do want to say that I am sorry you had a tangle with Grindelwald. Don’t think I didn’t read right through those scratch-outs, because I did. I’m not sure what you will think when you read that, but I want to tell you that it doesn’t make me think any less of you. You’re still just plain old Percival to me- the man whose mother owns a wooden spoon and can dance better than anyone else I know.

Your letter got here at a very early hour, and considering the travel time for that poor pigeon, I can only guess you hadn’t slept yet or hadn’t slept long enough. I can’t send a Dreamless Sleep through the mail (although how gutsy would that be? To send a vial of potion illegally through a No-Maj city to the Director of magical security in the USA?), and I imagine you could easily brew it if you need it, but I do hope you manage to get some sleep again today. Take the rest you need.

 

Let me know if there’s anything at all I can do,

Anne

 

p.s stop fussing about what time the letter got here.

 

He re-read it, and a cool relief seemed to settle. It was a welcome sensation that settled over his skin, warring slightly with the warmth oozing into the pit of his stomach. He laughed wetly at her attempts at humour. Gutsy, indeed. What a woman.


End file.
